Beyond
by Liberi Ad Somnia
Summary: A sequel to "More". Sherlock and Molly explore their newly established relationship. Rating is for later chapters. **REVIEWS CONTAIN SPOILERS**
1. Making Plans

**Author's Note: **Hi! This is the beginning of my sequel to "More". You're welcome just go ahead with this story, but please note that there are some things here which won't make sense outside of the context of that first story. ^_^

* * *

"JOHN!" Sherlock Holmes hollered up the stairs in the direction of his flatmate's bedroom. "JOHN!"

A very sleepy, and very cross, Dr. John Watson trudged down the stairs, yawning, one hand rubbing his eyes, the other pulling down the shirt he'd just managed to pull on. "WHAT? Christ, it's bloody seven in the morning!"

Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, though he held a teacup and a saucer in his hands. He smirked, "That's very flattering, but don't call me that. You'll offend a major religion." At John's eye roll, he walked into the kitchen and gestured for his friend to follow. "I've prepared breakfast."

The former army doctor was surprised to see a full English breakfast waiting for him: heaped on a huge plate he didn't know they owned- - - _Probably Mrs. Hudson's_, John thought - - - were bacon, what looked to be poached eggs, fried tomatoes, some sausages and baked beans. On a smaller plate was a pile of toast, a couple of jars of jam beside it, and a steaming mug of tea. John froze in place. He would have been pleased if he didn't know who he lived with.

"What did you do?" He asked warily, pursing his lips.

Sherlock looked up at John from where he'd seated himself in front of his own, considerably smaller, serving of food; his face a picture of innocence. "What?"

The doctor spread his arms, gesturing to the food. "You have never, I repeat, NEVER, made breakfast in the years I've lived with you." He put up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Which begs the question: WHAT have you gotten yourself into now which you need my help cleaning up? Because I draw the line at helping you dump a dead body."

This time, it was Sherlock who rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I was merely in a good mood and decided to cook us some breakfast. I saw Mrs. Hudson's recipe book again and simply decided to try my hand at it."

Although still wary of his best friend's motives, John decided to risk it. _No use wasting good food._ He sat himself down and tucked in, savouring the rare treat. He was in the middle of spreading apricot jam on his toast when he heard Sherlock clear his throat. He looked across the table and raised his eyebrows. "I knew it. Go on then, out with it."

"Ineedyourhelptoplanadatewith Molly." Sherlock rushed out while angrily eyeing his toast.

John gaped. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh you heard me. I'm not going to repeat myself." Sherlock replied irritably. His friend chuckled.

"You are. That is, unless of course you think you can manage on your own."

The consulting detective huffed. "Fine." He closed his eyes, bracing himself, and then glared at John. "I need your help to plan my first date with Molly!"

John made to stand, "Hold on, I didn't get my phone, I want a record of that."

"JOHN!"

"Fine, fine." John replied peaceably. "But I thought you said the two of you have already had dinner at that place...Chinese, wasn't it?"

Sherlock deflated. "Well, that...we did. But, it wasn't a _proper_ date." He took a fork and started poking his share of the bacon. "Molly didn't even realize we were going to go on one. She thought at first I wanted her to drop me off for dinner." When John almost choked on his tea in laughter, he began stabbing the sausage. "What?! You know this isn't my area."

"It really isn't, is it?" John, although highly amused at his best friend's plight, understood how hard it must be for the self-proclaimed sociopathic genius to plan for something like this. "Okay. I'll help you."

When Sherlock beamed, the doctor wondered at how much Molly had managed to infiltrate the walls the man before him had laboured all his life, it seemed, to put up. Smiling at the thought, he proceeded to ask his flatmate questions regarding Molly. He knew Sherlock would know her preferences, and John was gratified when he received detailed answers.

* * *

There are good days, bad days, and days somewhere in between. For one Dr. Molly Hooper, however, youngest - - - and only female - - - pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, today was turning out to be the best one yet.

Molly grinned as she carefully made a Y-incision on an elderly man's chest she had received for an autopsy. _I must look quite mad._ She thought. She knew that if anyone came in through the morgue's double doors and saw her grinning as she sliced open a corpse; they are most likely to stare and then make the entirely logical decision to bolt.

She couldn't help the smile, though. In a span of just several days her life had taken a turn for the better. It seemed to her that after waiting for so long, things were finally going her way. The past week was eventful, to say the least, and unsurprisingly, a certain consulting detective had been with her right at the heart of it.

An hour and a half later, Molly had just put in the last stitch needed to close up the body when she heard her mobile's text alert tone echo from her desk across the room. She carefully put away her things and pulled her gloves off, dispensing of them in the biohazard bin, walked over to the sink to wash her hands, and then walked to her desk to grab her phone, glancing up at the clock mounted above the doorjamb.

**Thought we'd go  
on that date tonight.**

**S**

She smiled, remembering the afternoon four days prior which they spent together in her flat. Molly had ended up arriving at work about a half hour late, but seeing as Sherlock had been the cause of delay, she didn't really mind. _Besides, I get in really early and stay late all the time_, she had reasoned. Sherlock had gone on a case since that day, and she was glad that apparently he and John had managed to wrap it up so soon. The detective would not have asked her on a date while in the middle of one. _At least, I don't think he would._

**You mean this morning?  
I'm still on the graveyard shift.  
What's the dress code? :-P**

**x M**

Molly put her mobile down and checked herself in the mirror. It was a good thing she'd decided to wear some of her better clothes today then. She rarely wore skirts, dresses even less, but she was in a good mood. She'd decided to wear a sleeveless navy blue shift dress she'd found on sale at M&S on one of her rare shopping sprees. It stopped just above her knees, which showed off her figure without being provocative, and she'd paired it with a white long sleeved cardigan to keep out the cold of the morgue.

Instead of putting up her hair in its usual ponytail, she'd opted to plait half of it so that the rest of her long hair fell to her shoulders while managing not to obscure her face and interrupt her work. She was in a pair of white ballet flats, and she debated changing into the black high-heeled pumps she knew was somewhere in her locker.

**That emoticon is disturbing.  
Whatever you have on is fine.  
Pick you up later.**

**S**

Molly laughed, shaking her head. She wasn't sure what Sherlock had planned, but was excited nonetheless.

* * *

Still in his pyjamas and dressing gown in 221B, Sherlock had stood up and gone into his room to put away his laptop when his phone sounded.

"Message!" John, who had just arrived home from his shift at the A&E and a quick dinner with Mary, shouted from his couch in the sitting room. Sherlock motioned for him to go ahead and read it. Rolling his eyes and grabbing the mobile which had been left sitting precariously on the edge of Sherlock's seat, he clicked it and read the message.

"It's Molly! Says she's excited and that you forgot the 'x'!" He had barely let the words out when Sherlock hurried back out of his room, grabbing the phone from him. Surprised, John asked, "What 'x'?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock squirmed under his friend's gaze. He stepped up and over the coffee table then sat on the sofa, fiddling with his phone.

John put a hand beneath his chin and stared at Sherlock, smirking. "You know, I just realized something." When he didn't receive a response, he continued, "The day we met you said you deduced I had a brother- - - which I'd like to remind you was wrong, it's sister- - - from my phone. And you pointed out that the three 'x's before Clara's name helped indicate her relationship to Harry." A smug grin appeared on his face. "How come you had to ask Molly and me what they meant?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock said evenly, although he avoided meeting his eyes.

Seeing Sherlock's discomfort, John's grin grew wider, and he leaned forward in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ah, I get it now. That was you trying to flirt with her! And here I thought the opposite sex was such a mystery to you."

Sherlock tried to ignore his teasing. "Of course I knew what the 'x' meant. I just didn't think it applied to her, that's all." His friend shook his head, letting out a small grunt of laughter.

John saw Sherlock's face grow stormy, and decided to change the subject. "So you're all done planning your date, then?"

The genius hummed in response and sent off a text before hurriedly standing up and striding towards the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" John called to his friend's retreating back.

Sherlock paused, turned around, and eyed him quizzically. "Obvious. I'm going to prepare."

It was John's turn to look puzzled, "What? For your date?" when Sherlock rolled his eyes, he added, "but doesn't Molly's shift end at 4am? It's not for another- - - " he eyed his watch, "- - - five hours!"

"So?"

"So? Isn't it too early to get started?"

The consulting detective huffed in indignation. "Of course not," he said, before disappearing into the bathroom.

* * *

Back in the morgue, Molly's mobile beeped, and when she checked, there were three messages waiting for her. She laughed after she'd read each one.

**John says you're going out  
on a date with Sherlock...ooh!  
Don't forget to give me an update!**

**:) MM**

.

.

.

**Hey Molls,  
Little insider info:  
Sherlock's spent the  
whole day planning.  
:-D**

**JW**

.

.

.

**Am looking forward  
to it as well.**

**S**

Molly was about to reply to John and Mary when her phone beeped again.

**Will stop sending 'x's.  
Much prefer the real thing.**

**S**

* * *

**A/N (**What? Another one!**):** My thanks to everyone who read "More". I decided on a sequel because I felt there were so many things I still need to 'reveal' regarding Sherlock and Molly's new dynamic. Hope you enjoyed it!

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	2. The First Date

The clock on the wall above the doors showed 03:50 am. Molly had never been so excited by the sight as she was at that moment.

Her shift ends at four, and then, she'd be able to go on a date with Sherlock. A date that he had, according to John, been preparing for the whole of the previous day.

Molly stood up. She'd been able to finish the paperwork on the last autopsy she'd done, and wanted to take advantage of the remaining ten minutes to try and get herself ready. She walked over to the loo and checked that she smelled all right. Hmmm...can't do anything about that, she thought, realizing she still smelt of formaldehyde, albeit very faintly. She took some of her perfume and put some on her wrists and in the hollow of her throat, and hoped they would mask the smell of death it seemed she was never without. She swiped on some lipstick and checked that her hair was still in place.

_I wish I could've gone home to take a shower_. But the day had been a busy one as usual, and she didn't like putting things off, even for a date. Molly knew Sherlock was used to her anyway, but would have liked to surprise him by looking..._hot._ Molly thought, then giggled at herself in the mirror, shaking her head. She found the idea ridiculous, the word was not something she associated with herself.

* * *

Sherlock stood beside the pathologist's desk and fidgeted. He'd arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, and just showed up, not bothering to send a text. He'd hoped to surprise her with the flowers he'd bought for the occasion. He heard the morgue doors open and looked up. He could not help a smile at the sight.

Molly was walking in, still unaware of his presence because she'd been rummaging in her handbag to make sure she hadn't misplaced her car keys. As she unknowingly walked towards him, Sherlock admired the sight of her legs freely. She usually wore loose pants, but her dress, though still professional, showed them off to great effect. Looking back up to her face, he realized she had her hair down, and a sudden lump in his throat necessitated that he clear it, startling the pathologist.

"Oh!" Molly looked up. She caught her breath and smiled up at him. "We match." she added with a smile.

Instead of the usual suit shirt, jacket, and trousers, he was wearing a white shirt beneath a dark blue shawl-collared long sleeve cardigan, it's button's done up, with dark chinos and leather shoes to match. His usually unruly curls were tame for once, and were brushed back. _He looks_...Molly had never had much trouble describing him before, but she's never seen him like this. He still looked good, just..._different_.

He had a hand behind him and when he brought it out she saw in it a bunch of tall yellow tulips. "They look so cheery!" she grinned, accepting them. "Thank you." she added, giving him a peck on the cheek. She took a large, clean Erlenmeyer flask from one of the counters and filled it with water, then set the flowers in it.

Sherlock gave her a small smile, "Thank John" he admitted, "He insisted I give you roses, though I thought the... traditional...meaning for these are more appropriate."

Molly giggled, quirking an eyebrow up at him. "How come?" When he merely shrugged, she made a mental note to conduct an internet search later.

"Ready to leave then?" Sherlock asked, and she nodded, wondering where they could go for a date so early in the morning. He seemed to sense her curiosity and shook his head, asking her not to ask. "You look nice." He added just as they walked out the doors, making her blush.

* * *

Molly gasped. She'd lived and worked in London for seven years now, and had been to most of the parks, even this one. Perhaps it was because it was so early in the morning, or because of who she was with, but to Molly, St. James's Park has never looked so beautiful. "But it doesn't open until 5am. We're a bit early." she whispered to Sherlock, her hand in his.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Called someone, a former client. He works for the company who maintains each of the eight royal parks in London." he tilted his head to indicate they should move forward.

A table was waiting for them near the lake's edge, with matching chairs that faced each other, and was set for what promised to be a sumptuous meal. They had arrived at an area surrounded by trees. Sherlock sat her down and lit the single candle on the table before getting seated himself. Molly could see he was uncharacteristically nervous, as he fidgeted with the collar of his cardigan.

"I've never seen you like this before." Molly smiled across the table from him. "You look different."

Sherlock squinted at her. "Problem?" he asked, eyeing his clothes. "John dresses like this when he goes on his dates, with usually...favourable...results." he looked back up at her. "You're not pleased?"

Molly's smile widened; she reached out to take the hand he was using to pull at his collar in hers, and sat back so that their hands were atop the table. "You still look good, Sherlock," Molly insisted, "I doubt you'd have any problem even if you wore a burlap sack." She giggled, watching him closely. "But you're uncomfortable. It was really nice of you to make an effort, but I much prefer you being yourself." she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

The consulting detective frowned at their joined hands. "But I'm not very nice. I thought if I was more like John..." he drifted off, pouting. He looked up abruptly when he heard her let out a quiet laugh.

"No, no." Molly looked into his eyes before continuing, "If I wanted to date John, or anyone like him, I'm quite certain you would've deduced it by now." She blushed then, but kept her eyes on his. "I-I want Sherlock Holmes, n-not anyone else." Great, the stutter's back. She thought, and hoped that the dim light hid what she was sure was a very red face.

Sherlock's chest constricted at her words, something that seemed to happen every time Molly spoke to him these days. His pleasure at her statement was made evident by a simultaneous raising of an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. He nodded to her, and gestured to the food spread on the table.

As they ate, they traded stories. Apart from their voices, the only sound was the occasional splash in the water somewhere in the distance and the gentle rhythmic hum of crickets hidden somewhere in between the trees. Sherlock detailed the last case he and John had taken on. It had necessitated a trip to Wales, which thrilled Molly, who wanted to know everything about it.

She in turn told him about a couple of interesting bodies she'd autopsied the days he was away; and she found that she enjoyed being able to tell tales about her work without the listener cringing. In fact, Sherlock seemed a bit envious when she told him about a particular male who appeared to have an extra lung, and made her promise to show him the reports and photographs she'd taken of the body. All in all, their "dinner" was an amiable one, reminiscent of the meal they had shared at her morgue.

When the meal was over, Sherlock stood, grabbing a bag Molly hadn't noticed was placed under the table, and leading her to a spot nearer to the water. He took out a blanket from the bag and spread it out on the grass, gesturing for her to take a seat.

Molly obliged, and Sherlock followed, stretching out beside her. When he glanced at her and saw her slightly shiver, he unbuttoned his cardigan and placed it on her bare legs, before wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She gave him a brief smile and then looked out to the water. "What are we waiting for?"

"The sun is supposed to rise in about..." Sherlock glanced at his watch, "...seven minutes." He glanced down at her and continued. "I thought you might like the view on the water. My research says sunsets are supposed to be more romantic, but your shift schedule and my own work would limit the probability of us being able to go on a date at dusk."

Molly grinned, "I prefer the sunrise, actually. My dad and I, and then my brother when he was big enough, we used to wake up at dawn to run, so it reminds me of those times." she took hold of the arm he had around her and pulled it closer, resting her cheek against it. "Sometimes, when I leave my car at the flat I take the longer route walking home just so I can see the sun break through. When the weather is nice the sky's so breathtaking." She sighed, watching the rapidly lightening sky.

"So are you." Sherlock whispered in her ear, and she turned, meeting his stare. She saw sincerity there, and felt heat prickling her cheeks. Molly attempted to turn away. "T-thank you." she whispered back, growing extremely self-conscious.

He lifted a hand to take a careful but firm hold on her chin, making sure she remained facing him, then met her lips with his. Her grip on his other arm loosened, and Sherlock was disappointed by the loss of contact. But then he felt her turn her body and adjust her legs so that her front faced his. Molly lifted a hand to brush his cheek, and the other landed on his neck, right where it met his shoulder, causing him to groan at the sensation.

Their kiss grew more passionate. He moved the hand which held her chin down to wrap an arm around her torso. He pulled her so that she was on his lap, and she gasped, feeling his arousal. At the sound, Sherlock silently cursed their lack of privacy, and promised himself that the next date would be different.

The sun broke through the clouds, causing the sky to turn pink, then orange, bathing them in light. Sherlock broke their kiss with a gasp, and Molly moaned in disappointment.

"If we don't stop now..." Sherlock breathed in her ear, and she nodded in understanding, her eyes still closed. She felt his hand on her cheek and opened her eyes, offering him a shy smile. "You're right," she said giggling slightly, "the 'x's are poor substitutes."

Molly moved back to sit beside him and lay on her back. "Lie beside me." she said softly, taking his hand in hers. He complied, moving so that her head was on his arm, making sure that his cardigan was moved back to cover her legs; it had been pushed aside in the heat of the moment.

She could feel his heart racing, and knew he could feel her pulse, as their hands were joined atop his flat belly.

Sherlock cleared his throat before asking, "How did I do?". When Molly stared at him quizzically, he clarified. "Our date. According to my research- - -"

"It's wonderful." Molly said softly, cutting him off. She looked up at him and continued. She knew he hadn't done this before, and was glad he'd kept it simple. "This is perfect. Although, there's just one more thing." Sherlock pouted as she sat up then.

Molly moved quickly, and mussed his hair so that it once again became its usual unruly mass, framing his face. "There, you look more like yourself this way." She smiled down at him, playing with a curl. Sherlock chuckled and pulled her back down, this time positioning her so that her head lay on his chest. They stayed there, stretched out on the blanket by the lake, listening to the park come alive around them.

* * *

When Molly started yawning, Sherlock deemed it time to bring her home. On the way he received a text from Lestrade, and Molly, sensing a case, insisted he go ahead and take her car, saying she planned to walk to work anyway. "I only really bring this old thing if I'm planning on doing some shopping. St. Bart's is so near." She reassured him.

Sherlock nodded, and started to open the door on his side. "You don't have to walk me to my door, Sherlock. Otherwise I wouldn't let you leave." She said mischievously. She received a wide grin from him in return before he gave her one last lingering kiss.

Once inside her flat, she came across her laptop, and remembered to pull up a search on the traditional meaning of tulips. What she read online made her smile.

_**"Tulips: It is said that the black center of the bulbous flower stands for a lover's heart that had been darkened with passion. Although nowadays yellow tulips are used to symbolize cheerfulness and joy, in Victorian times to give a yellow tulip meant that the giver has fallen hopelessly in love with the recipient."**_

* * *

**Author's Note:**Hope you enjoyed the fluff! ^_^

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	3. One Message Received

**Warning:** Let the squeamish beware! Crime victim description ahead.

* * *

Sherlock had driven to the crime scene in Spitalfields using Molly's car, and had sent John a text to meet him there. He stepped out and was greeted by the sight of one highly amused Sgt. Sally Donovan.

"Hello, Freak, been to a costume party?" she smirked, eyeing his clothes.

Sherlock merely glanced at her before answering, "Good afternoon, Sally." he started walking towards the shop where every other officer seemed to have gathered. "I see from your reddening palm and smudged lipstick you've broken it off with Anderson. Good for you. You really could do better finding an available man with at least an average IQ." he added rapidly, pausing only to throw Donovan a glance over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, over here!" DI Lestrade had caught sight of the consulting detective and motioned for him to come into the shop. "Took you long enough. What's this then?" Lestrade said as Sherlock approached, looking him up and down. "Don't tell me you've taken to stealing John's clothes!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a kit on a table by the door and pulled them on. "Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. These are my own clothes. If they were John's the trousers will be too short."

"Hey!" John had arrived a couple of minutes after the consulting detective, and had caught that last remark. Just like Lestrade, John looked at Sherlock's outfit intently, before understanding dawned on his face. "What did she say when she saw this, then?" he asked, gesturing to his friend's clothes.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to walk around the small shop. It sold specialty papers and various other custom stationery, and the faint smell of lavender mingled with the scent of blood that permeated the air. In the middle of the room, right before a display case lay the body of a woman, her head bashed in, and her face was hardly recognizable.

There was a moment's silence as Sherlock gazed upon the scene, taking in every detail. When he motioned to John, the former army doctor gingerly sat on his haunches and looked closely at the woman. He squinted, wondering why the woman seemed to look so familiar. Shaking the thought away, he began the usual litany:

"Victim is a female who looks to be in her early thirties, light build, brown hair. I'd say she's about one hundred sixty centimetres tall, weight around fifty-four kilograms. The obvious conclusion for cause of death would be blunt force trauma, but..." John leaned closer and pointed to the dead woman's throat, "...there are contusions on her throat that might point to asphyxiation."

Lestrade, who had been taking notes, paused and looked down at John, who was still on the floor by the body. "So, she was choked to death?"

John shook his head, "Can't tell for sure until an autopsy's been done."

Sherlock, who had been conducting his own examination of the body, spoke up. "Why did you call me here, Inspector? Surely even Anderson can't mess this up. This is hardly a three. I have better things to do." He cut himself off in time before he could add, _Like stay over at Molly's._

The detective inspector held out a hand. "There's been a string of murders, Sherlock. This is..." he paused, sighing and putting up his hand to his forehead. "This is the ninth one."

"The ninth one? Nine murders? Nine?" John sputtered, disbelief in his features. "And we've only been told about this now?"

Sherlock, who had been on his way out the shop door, swiftly came back, his brows furrowed. "Yes, Lestrade, why only now? And why wasn't this in any of the papers?" He leaned closer to the detective inspector, studying his face. "Ah! Bureaucratic maneuvering. Your bosses didn't want me involved, did they?" He continued, not waiting for the answer.

The silver-haired man shrugged his shoulders, looking over at Sherlock helplessly. "They gave the case to Dimmock. I only learned about this after HE came to me after they found the fifth one! I told them we could use your help, but some of my superiors still think coming to you for assistance would diminish the public's faith in NSY." He explained, shaking his head. "I only managed to convince them because this has gone on way too long already. This is the ninth body in a span of two weeks!"

Shocked, John stared at Lestrade with wide eyes. He had always known that Sherlock had been at odds with the police, especially after the fiasco with Richard Brook, aka Jim Moriarty. "What makes you say this is the ninth one in a series of murders?"

"That description you gave of the victim?" Lestrade pointed to the dead body, "It matches that of the eight previous ones."

Upon hearing this, Sherlock's eyes glinted, hinting at his excitement. "Where have all the other bodies been found? I need all the information you can provide, Detective Inspector."

Back in New Scotland Yard, John sat in a chair in Lestrade's office while the detective inspector, himself seated, handed a thick pile of manila folders to Sherlock. The consulting detective paced the room, glancing over the files quickly, taking in all the information that's been compiled and muttering to himself. "First one was found at Milner St., then Oxford St., Liverpool St., Lombard St., St. Johns Wood, Danvers St., in Kensington Gardens...Exactly where in Kensington Gardens?"

"At the Italian Gardens. Right next to the ram's head urn." Lestrade supplied.

"Right. Then down Edgware Road and now here. John, I need a map."

The DI once again spoke up. "We've already plotted out a map, Sherlock. There's- - - "

"Yes, yes. Here it is." Sherlock cut him off, waving the printout of a London map he'd found between the folders. True enough, all the murder sites have been marked on the map, and after staring at it for a moment, he huffed out in frustration. "I need my violin." was all he said before turning and walking briskly out of the office.

John and Lestrade looked at each other knowingly, and the doctor nodded his goodbye, gathering his coat and hurrying out before his friend could leave him behind.

Catching up to the consulting detective just as he was getting into a cab, he was surprised to find his friend with a concerned frown on his face and his hands balled tight.

"What's the matter?" John asked, frowning. When he did not receive a reply, he settled in his seat, puzzled by his friend's reaction.

* * *

The first thing Sherlock did upon arrival at 221B was to go straight into his bedroom to change. He emerged soon after wearing his usual garb and proceeded to stand at the window whilst absentmindedly running his bow over his violin, not playing anything in particular.

The doctor, meanwhile, called his girlfriend, intent on warning her they had a case at hand. Mary was mostly amenable to John's adventures with the consulting detective, but had reminded John that he was to inform her of any cases they might take on, partly so that she wouldn't be surprised if he cancelled dates or disappeared for days on end, and partly for her own peace of mind.

"Hello? Mary? Yes, I'm calling to say...yes, yes. Depends on how long this one takes, it's rather serious. How? Erm, I'll put it this way, Sherlock's playing the violin." John chuckled, listening to Mary's response. "Yes, I know. This could be a seven, possibly an eight." He stood up to walk into the kitchen, pinching his mobile in between his ear and right shoulder so he can fetch the tin of biscuits from the cupboard overhead. He then walked over to the kettle to boil some water for tea, before proceeding to his customary chair by the fireplace.

"What have you been up to? Oh, teaching music? Have I told you I used to play clarinet at school?" ignoring Sherlock's sneer, he continued, "Oh, you're learning the scales? There's an acronym for that, isn't there? Uhm…what is it again? Wait, no, don't tell me…erm…I got it! Every Good Boy Does Fine!"

At this, Sherlock scoffed, scraping his bow vehemently. "That's not an acronym, that's a mnemonic!"

"Oh, wait, Mary, he's at it again. Sorry. Talk to you soon? Yes, well, love you." John, realizing that his flatmate was about to go on one of his rants, ended the call and turned to Sherlock. "What?"

The taller man paced, waving his bow in the air. "Every Good Boy Does Fine. It's a mnemonic, not an acronym. An acronym is when you use the first letters of a set of words to form something that you can pronounce as a single word, for example, in the musical scale, the spaces in between the lines of the staff are F, A, C, E or FACE. If you do the same to the lines, it wouldn't be an acronym; it would be called initialism, because you won't be able to pronounce EGBDF like a single word—OH!" Sherlock abruptly stopped in his tracks, put down the violin and bow, and moved to pick up the file folders he'd haphazardly thrown on the sitting room coffee table once they'd arrived.

As he sat down on the couch, John grabbed his biro and notebook and stood close, looking at the files over Sherlock's shoulder.

"There have been nine victims John. Even four or five would have been enough to form a word and send a message, but why nine?" Sherlock quickly grabbed the papers, rattling off names, "Shannon Williams, Anne Wright, Mary Lewis…"

After the sixth name, John shook his head. "Nope. It's not an acronym, Sherlock, that's a G, V, D. The surnames are all consonants too. What about the place names?" Seeing Sherlock preoccupied with the files, John reached over and plucked the map printout. He listed the crime scene locations while muttering the names to himself.

"Milner St., Oxford, Liverpool, Lombard, St. Johns Wood, Danvers, Kensing- - - oh, uhm what did Lestrade say again? The Italian Gardens?" at Sherlock's absentminded nod he continued… "Edgware Ro- - - Sherlock."

"The last one was at Spitalfields. Honestly, John, we've just been there."

"No, Sherlock. N-no. Christ. Just. Here." When Sherlock heard the doctor's voice, he turned, and saw that John had gone pale. He realized just what had made this effect on his friend a split-second before he read the words that were on the page John had ripped out of his notebook to show him.

There, in the doctor's messy handwriting, Sherlock read the words that made his blood run cold and his feet hurry to the door and to the gathering dusk of the street outside, his hands frantically fiddling with his phone.

_**M.O.L.L.S.D.I.E.S.**_

* * *

**Author's Note:** No fluff this time, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same!

Thanks again to everyone who left reviews and to all those who read and followed this story. ^_^

Ta,

~Liberia Ad Somnia


	4. A Sense of Urgency

Molly lay back in the tub, relishing the last few minutes of relaxation she had left before she has to get up and get ready for work. She heard her mobile's text alert sound from the other room, but decided whoever was sending her a message could wait. She usually didn't indulge herself so, especially since a hot bath would be rendered useless by the combined smells of the dead, formaldehyde, and laboratory chemicals she would be welcomed with at the morgue later on. She felt like mulling over her date earlier that day, and wanted the relative quiet of a bath in place of a hurried shower.

Her phone sounded off two more times, and Molly sighed. _I guess it's time to cut this short, _she thought. _That might be something urgent._

As she was getting ready to stand, a loud, insistent knocking issued from her front door, which was followed by…_is that…clicking?_ She wondered, trying her best not to slip in the tub as she stood and made to step out. Several thuds followed and then her bathroom door was flung open and Molly's heart jumped in her throat, causing her to slip.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact of her head hitting either the tub or the floor, when suddenly the sensation of falling stopped, and she felt an arm grab her hip and another the back of her head, pulling her upright. Molly squeaked, opening her eyes on instinct, and chocolate brown met an ocean of blue and green.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked. Her hands flew to her chest, her heart still pounding. "You scared me, almost literally to death!" she exclaimed. Then she remembered her state, and blushed a deep crimson, her eyes widening in embarrassment.

Instead of answering, Sherlock pulled her close, encasing her in a brief but crushing hug, before swiftly letting go and turning around while simultaneously handing her a towel.

"Get dressed. We have to go. I left your car at the Yard earlier; we'll have to take a cab." He explained, his back turned towards her.

Molly wiped herself off, wrapped herself in the towel, turned to drain the tub, and gently nudged Sherlock. "Where are we going? Why do you sound…strange?" she asked, worried.

Sherlock turned around to face her. She was surprised to find his usually stoic features set in an anxious frown. "I'll explain later. Just hurry, Molly."

She nodded, and walked out and into her bedroom. As she opened her wardrobe doors, Sherlock stood beside her and started taking out her clothes and flinging them towards the bed.

"What are you doing? Sherlock? Hey! What- -" Molly stared helplessly, clutching her towel as the consulting detective started opening her drawers, paying her no mind. He seemed almost manic. Although his face had resumed its usual stoic mask, his eyes shone, and his hands shook with the urgency of his movements.

Growing more anxious by the minute, Molly grabbed the hand that was reaching for her socks and pulled hard so that he was forced to turn towards her. "Sherlock! What's wrong? Why are you doing this?" She lifted a hand to his cheek, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone.

"You weren't answering my texts!" He snapped. _Stop acting like this!_ He commanded himself. _You'll only frighten her._ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before speaking again. "You need to go with me to Baker Street." He opened them and looked straight into her eyes before continuing. "I'll explain later. However you need to pack your bags with whatever you think you'll need, and I will call Stamford to inform him you need to take the day off."

Confused, Molly hesitated. "What's going on? W-why? Tell me what happened." She urged gently.

"You'll be safer there. Please, Molly." He stood closer, his eyes on hers. He lifted a hand to her face, smoothing the few tendrils of wet hair that clung to her forehead. "Please." He added, his eyebrows furrowed, "Please."

* * *

In the cab on their way to 221B, Sherlock remained silent; his hand gripped the large bag she had packed with a couple of days' worth of clothing, his other tightly entwined with hers. His eyes darted about, and Molly could tell he was scanning their surroundings even more closely than usual. She chose not to speak. _This, whatever this is, _she thought worriedly, _it's shaken him._ The last time she saw him like this was on the night he'd told her he needed her, and it frightened Molly. She knew Moriarty was dead- - - she had done the autopsy herself- - - but in that moment she started having doubts. _What if he'd managed to fake his death as well?_

Sherlock sensed her anxiety and shook his head, "It's not him, Molly." He gave her hand in his a brief squeeze before turning back to the window.

* * *

"What? A-are you, are you sure?" Molly exclaimed, wringing her hands.

Once they arrived at 221B and Sherlock settled her on the couch, John had handed her a cup of tea and had begun talking. He told her about Lestrade and the case of the nine murdered women. John had seemed odd to Molly, and when he sat down in his chair with a huff and a grimace and told her about the message they'd deciphered, Molly's hand shook so badly she had to put the cup and saucer down.

Sherlock, who had been pacing in front of the window, ruffled his hair irritably. "Of course, we're sure. The murdered women match your general physical characteristics. The moment I saw the woman at Spitalfields, I was reminded of you, however it was not until Lestrade revealed that she was the ninth in a series did I realize the gravity of the situation. I had hoped it simply matched your description, that you simply fit the serial killer's preference for victims, but after the message was uncovered, I'm quite certain they were all merely a prelude to you." He huffed, removed his jacket and threw it across the room, not caring when it landed on the floor. "If only we had been informed of this sooner! But no! Those idiots were simply too arrogant to ask for help, and they wonder why the public is starting to lose faith!"

John sighed, pinched his nose and closed his eyes. _Here we go._ He was used to Sherlock's verbal rampages, and knew that this time around his best friend had more cause than usual to launch into one. He waited for something else to be thrown across the room, probably a book or a random pile of papers, anticipating the sound of something flying and then a thud as it lands on the floor.

When the consulting detective's rants were followed by mere silence, he opened his eyes and was taken aback by the scene that met them.

Sherlock stood still, his face to the window. Molly had apparently stood up from her seat and now had her arms around his flatmate, her hands clutched atop his middle, her forehead resting on his back. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's hands went to hers, prying them apart and entwining them with both of his. His chest was still heaving from the speed and volume of his earlier rant, but he'd let his eyes close, his head bent forward.

A faint clicking sound turned the former army doctor's attention away from the couple and towards the doorway, and he saw Lestrade with his phone held out, a grin on his face.

John stood and walked over to the Detective Inspector. "Good, you're here."

At the sound of his voice Sherlock and Molly separated, and Sherlock nodded at Lestrade before pulling Molly to sit next to him on the couch.

"What was so urgent?" Lestrade had received a text from both John and Sherlock earlier that evening, asking him to hurry over to the flat. "Couldn't leave earlier, they called us over for a meeting."

John motioned to Sherlock's seat by the fireplace. "You'll need to sit down for this." He waited until Lestrade had settled down before once again launching on the story.

* * *

Once Lestrade had been caught up, he had vehemently insisted that Molly should stay over somewhere she won't be alone, even if it meant Baker Street, until the case had been solved. She had tried to protest of course, citing everything from inconvenience for the two men to her ability to defend herself in a fight- - - she'd proven she can once before- - - but John and Lestrade had argued right back.

Sherlock, who had oddly been the one to remain silent during their entire discussion, took advantage of a lull in the conversation. He turned in his seat to look at Molly and uttered a single word. "Please." He didn't touch her, but his eyes searched her face, clearly asking her to agree.

She couldn't find it in her heart to say no.

* * *

That night, Molly lay awake in Sherlock's bed, listening to the sound of the consulting detective's footsteps as he paced in the sitting room. John had gone to Mary's; leaving immediately after Lestrade had gone back to the Yard to give his team an update on the case. Since Molly had slept for some hours earlier in the day in preparation for work, she was nowhere near sleepy, but had chosen to stay in bed to let Sherlock concentrate on the case.

An hour passed, and Molly, both bored and agitated, crept out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to try and prepare some tea for herself. Once done, she settled on a kitchen stool and watched as Sherlock grabbed his violin and sat down with a huff on the couch. He absently plucked the strings, and he was muttering to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.

Several minutes passed, and Molly stood to clean her cup and saucer in the sink. Intending to walk past the still detective and back into the bedroom. She threw one last look over her shoulder and saw him doing something she'd never seen before.

_Sherlock's nodding off._

Molly realized that he must have not had any sleep yet. They'd had their date just after her graveyard shift earlier that day, and prior to that both he and John had been on a case that lasted four days. She was willing to bet he hadn't slept a wink.

She watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's shoulders slumped, and his head slowly dipped forward. When his hand on the violin grew slack, he suddenly jerked back up, stifling a yawn. Catching his eye, Molly laughed, and reached out a hand.

"Come on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glared at her. "You know I don't sleep when I'm on a case." He plucked a violin string to emphasize his point.

Molly walked over to where he sat; her arms on her hips. "You haven't had any sleep for who knows how long already. You won't be of any use to anyone if you faint from exhaustion." She reached out her hand again, beckoning to him.

"I don't faint." He scowled, eyeing her outstretched hand.

She shook her head. "You will if you don't get some rest."

"I am resting."

Molly sighed. "Fine. Just lay with me then." When Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, Molly's eyes widened. "No! N-not that way! I meant…I meant come to bed with me." She flustered, flailing her hands. _Good job, Molly, what he must think of you now!_ "No! I-I meant you could…FINE!" she screamed the last word, frustrated. "FINE! Stay there! But don't blame me if you fall flat on your face because you're too tired to move pro-MMMFFF!" Sherlock swiftly stood and caught her lips with his own, effectively cutting her off.

A couple of minutes later, he pulled back and looked down at her with a cheeky grin. "Come to bed, Molly." He said, before pulling her into the bedroom.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay, folks! Hope the fluff in this chapter makes up for it. ^_^

Thanks again for your generous reviews, encouragement and constructive criticism really helps!

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	5. Unexpected Returns

Molly woke up slowly, relishing the feel of expensive Egyptian cotton against her skin. _I wonder what the thread count is._ She thought, gently rubbing her cheek against the pillow.

A deep voice sounded right behind her.

"Hmmm."

An arm she hadn't noticed was on her waist tightened around her and pulled, and she felt her back press flush against something warm and solid.

For a moment, Molly froze in surprise. But then the events of last night came rushing back, and she smiled.

Sherlock had been too tired to do anything but give her one lingering kiss before Molly managed to tuck him in. He had protested, of course, but she managed to convince him with a promise.

"_Sherlock! Just go to sleep!" She pleaded, exasperated._

"_But I've got a case on!" He whined, trying to sit up, only to have Molly push him back down onto the bed. "I never sleep when there's a case on. Time will be much better spent trying to solve it. There would be less likelihood of you getting into any more danger the quicker I am at it!"_

_Molly sighed, "Look, Sherlock. I'm your case, well, at least a part of it. I'm here, with you. I hardly think whoever's after me will barge in here the moment you close your eyes!"_

_A pout appeared just then. "Just because we're in a relationship now doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."_

_She closed her eyes, praying for patience. "Please, Sherlock. No one can tell you what to do, your own brother, the British Government himself, can't tell you what to do. Consider this a…" she shook her head, searching for words, "…a very insistent suggestion. Besides, you should know, of all people, what a lack of sleep does to a person's cognitive processes. Or do you want me, a doctor, to cite numerous medical research findings regarding this matter?"_

_When Sherlock remained silent but petulant, Molly tried negotiation. "What if I promise not to leave? I won't go anywhere while you're asleep. That'll keep me safe long enough for you to get some rest, consolidate the information you've gathered in that big, brilliant, brain of yours, and then get ready for whatever happens tomorrow, yeah?"_

"_Fine." At that Sherlock pulled her down and closed his eyes, his arms tightly wound around her._

Molly turned in Sherlock's arms, trying her best not to wake him. She couldn't tell what time it was, since the dark curtains managed to block out any light from filtering inside.

She fought an urge to giggle. She expected him to look like one of those men in the movies, angelic and peaceful, with a slight smile on his lips. Sherlock didn't look anything like them.

His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips almost in his customary pout, as if he was sternly concentrating on something. It reminded her of when he'd stare down his chosen microscope at the morgue, fiddling with the knobs and mumbling to himself. Sherlock didn't mumble much this morning, though he did hum, his chest vibrating, a pleasant sensation for her.

Molly decided she liked this sight better.

Unable to stop herself, Molly lifted a hand to brush a curl from his face, gently stroking the space between his eyebrows to try and relax them. He did mumble then, and his arms tightened their hold on her, though he didn't wake up.

"Hmmmolly."

* * *

John had returned later that day with shopping. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered what scene would greet him today. Somehow Molly's presence in their flat significantly changed the probability of finding Sherlock in anything John considered to be his normal state.

_Well, normal for Sherlock._ He was about to open the door when he heard his flatmate's voice. "What? That's ridiculous!"

The doctor opened the door and saw that Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of his chair with his knees up and his chin on them, pointing at the TV screen. Molly sat above him, her knees folded beneath her, and her shoulders shook with laughter. She had a hand in Sherlock's hair, playing with his curls. "It's meant to be ridiculous! It's Monty Python. That's where the term 'pythonesque' comes from. I can't believe you've never seen a single episode!"

Molly heard the door open and looked up, still grinning. "Oh, hi John! We saved you some brunch. It's in the icebox next to the foot." She stood up, earning a disapproving groan from the self-proclaimed sociopath on the floor, and walked over to help John put away the shopping in the kitchen. "Don't worry, I made sure it was kept in something sealed." She added good-naturedly.

"Ta. But I'll have to save it for later. I've already had breakfast with Mary."

"Told you he would." Sherlock absentmindedly commented from the sitting room.

Before John could retort, a text alert sounded from the kitchen table. "Sherlock, message." He said instead. The consulting detective merely reached out a hand, palm up, though his eyes remained on the telly. Rolling his eyes, he made to grab the phone when the pathologist spoke gently.

"Why not get it yourself? We're both rather busy." She turned her head to meet Sherlock's scowl. "Go on." She added, tilting her head to indicate the mobile.

To John's surprise, Sherlock actually stood up and sauntered into the kitchen, where he grabbed his mobile with a huff. He stood there, reading the message. His left eyebrow lifted, and John, who had caught it, spread an arm out, silently asking his flatmate what the matter was.

Sensing the sudden quiet, Molly turned to face the two, glancing at each of them in turn. "What? Is something the matter?"

"Nothing. It's only Mycroft, making a nuisance of himself." Sherlock harrumphed, and pocketed his phone before ambling back over to where he'd previously been sitting.

* * *

That evening, Molly had insisted on going back to work despite Sherlock's protests. When she remained adamant, he insisted on accompanying her and dragging John along.

"I swear, Sherlock. Sometimes you make me want to break your nose!" Molly exclaimed.

"She can, too." John added, chuckling. "Oh, get off it, Sherlock. Lestrade's got a couple of officers assigned to her already. Besides, you know Mycroft likes her, I'm sure he's got about a dozen men ensuring her safety."

Molly was taken aback. "Wait, Mycroft what?"

It was Sherlock who answered. "Mycroft likes you. Of course he does. You were the one who persuaded me to contact him that time I was in hiding, AND you made sure to bake a cake for him whenever he came to visit. I think the latter's the main reason really, he always did have a sweet tooth." He spoke without stopping. "I'll take you to St. Bart's. I insist."

The pathologist rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go get ready."

As she walked away and into Sherlock's bedroom to change, the consulting detective's mobile beeped for the seventh time that day.

"Sherlock," John walked over to where his friend stood, squinting up at him sternly. "That's not Mycroft. We both know he resorts to texting _me_ when you don't reply to his messages. What's going on?"

Sherlock huffed, then gave his mobile over to the doctor wordlessly, rubbing his chin with irritation. John looked at him quizzically before reading the text.

**I'm not hungry.  
****Let's have dinner.****  
**

It wasn't signed, but John could feel the hair on his nape stand on end. Mouth agape with agitation, he scrolled through the rest of the six other messages, every single one conveying the same sentiment.

"But it...it can't be. Mycroft said, he said- - - " John mumbled, staring at the phone in his hands.

"He said she's dead, yes. That's what he thinks. She isn't." Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stared out the window.

His answer confused John for a bit before something, a memory, clicked inside the doctor's brain. "Mycroft said the only way she could've survived was if you... oh, come on, Sherlock!" His rant was cut off when the mobile in his hand once again beeped, and at the owner's nod he read the message, his eyes widening by the second.

Seeing his friend's reaction, Sherlock reached over and grabbed his mobile back.

**So you'd rather  
****have dinner with Molls?  
****Poor man, I did tell you  
****about what happens to her.****  
**

Before Sherlock could react, the door to his bedroom opened, and out came Molly, dressed and ready for work. She was rummaging in her oversized bag as she walked towards them, and the consulting detective was grateful for that fact, otherwise she would have seen the alarm still on John's face.

"I'm ready." Molly looked up, and managed only a slight wave at John before Sherlock walked swiftly to her side and wordlessly led her out of the sitting room and down the staircase with his hand on the small of her back. "You're in a hurry." She mumbled as he shepherded her.

Without a word, Sherlock stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned to her, putting both hands to her shoulders, and swiftly leaned down to capture her lips with his. Used to his mood swings, Molly lifted a hand to caress his nape and the other rested on his hip.

She expected a goodbye kiss, but she found herself being pushed backward, until she felt the surface of the solid wall behind her. Sherlock's hands moved, one to cradle the back of her head under the base of her ponytail, the other on her hip, pulling her close so that she was trapped in between his legs.

She gasped when his mouth left hers for a sharp intake of breath, but any attempt at speech was hampered when he roughly captured her bottom lip between his, a low growl emanating from his lips.

Torn between desire and worry, Molly went along at first, kissing him back with fervour. But when she heard him growl, anxiety won: she could hear something else in the sound, and knew that the kiss was for something more. She put her hands on his chest and pushed, making him stop.

"What's wrong? What's going on?" She lifted both her hands and cradled Sherlock's face, willing him to look at her.

Sherlock stilled, his eyes closed, trying to hold himself in check. "Nothing, nothing's wrong. I just…"

Molly shook her head. "No, don't start that. Tell me the truth."

He sighed, leaning his forehead on hers. "I just want you safe. I want you here. With me." He opened his eyes then, meeting hers.

Molly studied his face. She knew he still wasn't telling her everything, but he was telling her the truth. "I know. But I…I can't put my life on hold because of something like this. " She kissed his cheek before pulling back and smiling up at him. "This caring for someone else really takes a lot of energy, doesn't it?"

He gave her a tentative smile back and ran a hand through his hair. "It does, but I won't stop."

Molly beamed. "That's good news."

Sherlock took her hand then and led her out the door. Once outside, he ushered Molly into her car and walked over to the driver's seat, "From now on you'll need to use your car wherever you go." At Molly's scowl he added, "Please?" to which she gave rueful grin and a nod.

He looked at the rear view mirror, and his eyes narrowed at what he saw there.

A bit further down the road from them stood a familiar figure in a white dress, and black heels, her hair pinned up, her blood red lips visible even in the distance.

There, with a smile, stood one Irene Adler.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry if I made you wait a bit longer than usual! I have been writing and re-writing this and the next few chapters, just trying to get them to "look" the way I want to.

As always, please accept my gratitude for reading my attempts at fanfic, whether you leave a review or not, it means a great deal to me that these things are being viewed at all!

My thanks also to those who've shown their support for my fanfics by consistently leaving reviews: **MizJoely, Rocking the Redhead, SpencerReidFan89, magicstrikes, MorbidbyDefault, Adi Who Is Also Mou,** and **Snarkland78**- - - I hope you liked that little shout out Snarkland78! When I read your review of the previous chapter, I just thought, "That has to be said in here, somewhere." ^_^

Ta!

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	6. Overdue Information

After he'd brought Molly to St. Bart's, Sherlock headed straight to Scotland Yard and sent a text telling John to meet him there. Once he arrived, he headed straight to Lestrade's office, and paced in front of the DI's desk. He refused to answer any questions the Detective Inspector posed until John had arrived, after which he sat the doctor down and told them both about Irene Adler.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed when he had finished speaking. "She has quite a bit of a nerve on her, showing her face after she'd made a direct threat towards Molly!"

John stood, shaking his head. "To be honest, I'm quite surprised myself." At Lestrade's puzzled look, he continued. "When we first met her, she didn't seem to me to be a murderess. I mean, sure, she's a dominatrix, inflicts pain for a living, but she's well…this doesn't seem to me to be her style."

The DI's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "But the victims were choked to death! She could easily manage that! Besides, you said she might as well have confessed to the crime via text. Also, _you_ said" he pointed to Sherlock, "you've never taken her up on her, quote-unquote dinner offer. That's motive. "Hell hath no fury" and all that."

At this Sherlock shook his head. "No, no. I've made it clear to her that there was nothing whatsoever between us."

"Why'd you save her life then?" John asked. He had had the question nagging at him ever since he found out. "If you didn't feel anything for her, why did you go through all the trouble of flying to Karachi, saving her life, helping her establish a new identity, and keeping her under Mycroft's radar?"

"That is something worth knowing. Do tell."

The three men turned to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, a hand in his jacket pocket, and the other holding his customary umbrella. Sherlock groaned, rolled his eyes and sat down, his restless hands tapping his knees.

Mycroft smirked before closing the door behind him and walking towards Lestrade's desk. He shook hands with the Detective Inspector, nodded to John, and sat himself down in a chair opposite his brother. No one bothered to question his presence in Scotland Yard, all of them knew he had access to information not even the police were privy to.

No one spoke; three men waited for an answer while the fourth fidgeted under their stare. A few moments later Sherlock let out an impatient sigh and launched into his explanation.

"Do not doubt it when I say that nothing occurred between the Woman and I that would constitute anything…_romantic_ in nature. When I learned of her capture I merely posited that since minds like hers are hard to come by it would be a pity if she met with untimely death. Also, she had collaborated with _Moriarty_," he spit out the name venomously, "directly, and could therefore be useful to me if and when the need came, which proved to be true. In the time I was…away" he paused, the events of what had come to be known as _The Fall_ still brought up unpleasant memories and emotions, "I managed to contact her and received some vital information on the network. But that's it. We didn't even meet in person; it was all through electronic communication."

"And yet she came around today expecting dinner." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother in disapproval. "You might think that nothing happened between the two of you, however she seems to have taken a different view of the matter. You must understand dear brother, that not everything that seems obvious to us…" he didn't finish his statement, and merely waved a hand towards the door, indicating the policemen outside.

John, who was used to the brothers by this point, cleared his throat and turned to Mycroft. "Can't you do something? I don't know, have your men…grab her?"

"Now wait a minute," Lestrade chimed in, "I know she's a suspect, but _grab _her?"

Mycroft frowned. "I assure you doctor. Once I received footage of a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Irene Adler loitering around Baker Street earlier today, the security detail assigned to Doctor Hooper was doubled, and men were despatched to take Miss Adler in to custody. Unfortunately the Adler woman has managed to slip away, and, apparently…" Mycroft splayed a hand in the air dramatically, "_disappear."_

* * *

Back in 221B, John watched as Sherlock sat in the corner of the couch randomly plucking on his violin. His friend has been at it for an hour already, and John was certain that it would last well into the dawn.

He sat down and settled in to read, it being his day off from the A&E. Sherlock had told him there hadn't been any additional texts, and although the doctor wondered what it meant, he was busy worrying about something else.

"Stop it, John." Sherlock's voice boomed from across the room. "It's distracting. If you want to ask a question, then ask. There's no use thinking about it so much that it starts to bother _me._"

He sighed, used to the consulting detective's moods. "Fine." He put the book down and turned so that he was facing his friend. "Have you told Molly yet?"

"Told her what?" Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled. "Oh! You mean about the Woman? No. I haven't. There's no reason frighten her further by informing her of the Woman's threat."

At John's exasperated expression, Sherlock, apparently confused, lay his violin carefully down beside him and took to rosining his bow. "How many times do I have to tell you? The Woman and I were never together. If I were to tell Molly anything about her, it would be because it is in her best interest to understand who she's dealing with. Anything other than that is impertinent to the present circumstances."

He was surprised when John threw a seat cushion at him, which landed on his head, nearly making him drop the bow. He turned and glared at John, who was glaring right back.

"Bloody hell, mate! You really do NOT know how this whole relationship thing works, do you?" he wiped his eyes and leaned back so that he reclined in his chair more comfortably. "You have to tell Molly about Irene, Sherlock." He turned his head so that his eyes met Sherlock's. "Trust me on this. She would want to know about it." Concern replaced the frustration on his face. "If you really care for her - - -"

"I love her." Sherlock said simply, and shrugged his shoulders as if John were remiss in not catching on to something so obvious.

That statement startled John into a moment's silence, pleasantly stunned by his best friend's straightforwardness. "Well then, you have to be honest with her. I know you said Irene and you were never _"together" _together, but Irene apparently thinks differently. Imagine what Molly would feel if she found out about her from someone else. NOT from me, obviously!" he raised a hand when he saw Sherlock bristle, "But these things can't remain hidden for long. I mean, you managed to keep even your brother in the dark, but here we are. I'm not saying it's your fault this is happening. I understand that you did what you did then because you thought it was something that needed to be done. But this, Sherlock, this is something you have to share to the woman with whom you are in a relationship." Done speaking, John settled in his seat and merely raised an eyebrow at his friend, waiting for his response.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stood, walking towards the window. "I'll tell her tonight." He looked back at his friend over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "Satisfied?"

John nodded, and went back to reading his book.

* * *

A few more hours passed. John had gone up to his room to go to sleep, not bothering to say goodnight to Sherlock, who had taken to lying on the couch, his hands underneath his chin, apparently wandering in his Mind Palace. He was still lost in his own thoughts when Molly arrived, bone weary from her shift at the morgue.

She took off her coat and walked to where Sherlock lay, dropping her bag on the coffee table on the way. She stood over him and just stared, taking in his appearance. He was wearing pyjama bottoms with a rumpled shirt, his robe carelessly strewn about him, his feet bare and his hair a wild mess of curls. Molly chuckled, leaned in, and reached out to brush an errant curl away from his closed eyes. When her fingers touched his brow he let out a huff and opened his eyes, immediately focusing on her.

"Hello." He whispered, as his eyes searched her face.

Molly smiled down on him, "Hello." She started to straighten up, but Sherlock reached out; one hand went to her nape and gently pulled her down, while the other landed on her hip and coaxed her to lie down next to him. She obliged, and let Sherlock arrange it so that she was tucked in beside him on the couch, his arm on her wrapped around her torso and waist to secure her place next to him and his hand on her nape bringing her in for a gentle kiss.

Sherlock sighed. "I have to tell you something." He hesitated, his arm on her waist tightened. Molly remained silent, listening to his breathing, and waited.

In the early morning darkness he spoke of Irene Adler: how he came to know of her, the incidents with her phone and her fake body at the morgue, her subsequent "resurrection", and how she had almost outwitted him. He explained how he had saved her life in Karachi, how she had helped in his campaign against Moriarty's web, and, finally, how she had threatened Molly that day. He spoke without stopping, as if he wished to have the matter over and done with as soon as possible, and when he was done he stilled, realizing that Molly had not uttered a single word the entire time.

"Molly?" he whispered into her hair, trying to quell the nerves that he did not realize he had. He knew she was still awake, and could feel the tension in her shoulders.

A few minutes passed, and when Molly finally spoke, it was a question. "Why…why do you call her that?" she whispered, turning her head up to look into his eyes, and Sherlock could see her uncertainty, and realized how insecure she felt at that moment. "Why…do you call her The Woman?" she drew in a nervous breath, dreading his answer. "I know you said she called herself that professionally. But…well, whenever you say it, it's, I don't know, it's as if it's something special." She lowered her eyes then, choosing to stare at his jaw line instead. "It's as if…you have a pet name for her. THE Woman. What am I then? A woman? A pathologist?" She hesitated, realizing how she sounded. "I'm sorry, forget it."

Inexplicably relieved, Sherlock lifted a hand to her chin, making her meet his eyes. "You're Molly. My Molly." He gave her a peck on the lips and hugged her tighter. "My Molly. Mine" He repeated, "and," he paused, making sure she was paying attention, "I'm yours."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I don't even know how to begin apologizing for the very lengthy delay. At first I was only struggling with wrestling the story into shape, and I had honestly intended to post chapters six and seven the day after I had received that email from **Snarkland78,** who was kindly asking me how I was doing. (Thanks again for checking up on me Snarkland78! That was nice of you. ^_^)

But then...well...stuff happened. And because I feel that I have to explain exactly _what _"stuff" means, please bear with me.

First, I somehow lost my story files, as in, I LOST them. I jot down notes in a private journal I keep, but I type out my stories in MS Word and then later cut and paste them to . I had finished with chapters six and seven and was about halfway done with eight when this happened, so frustration got me and I kind of gave up for a few days.

Then when I managed to type chapter six and seven out again, I received emails which were, well, just _mean. _I won't drop names here, but they said things that, for someone like me who's just starting out in the fan fiction community, were highly rude and discouraging. I don't mind constructive criticism AT ALL, I believe it's essential if one wants to be an effective writer.

But I was called names, told to get off because apparently my- - and I'm quoting one of the emails here - - - "OTP sux" and the way I've written Sherlock "is lyk, totally diff from how he realy is". They sent me emails here and to my tumblr account and I know I shouldn't have given in, but take it from someone who knows: when you're being bullied, it's as if you're trapped in a box with no air holes, and all you want, all you can think of, is to try and get out.

So I did. I stayed away from for awhile and just went on the way I did before I had started uploading stories here. But I realize now that I want to do this, and I will, no matter how mean people can get, and how many different names they call me.

To everyone who have expressed their eagerness for the rest of this little tale, I hope you'll forgive me, and that you'll stick around for more.

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	7. Molly's Day Off

Days passed, and Molly, on both Sherlock and John's insistence, remained in 221B. The murders have stopped, and Lestrade was worried that this was because Irene Adler had not yet had the opportunity to take Molly from under their noses. Mycroft had maintained her security detail, and it was to everyone's surprise when Sherlock insisted that surveillance should be added to Baker Street and the areas between there and St. Bart's, as well as Molly's work place. Life was far from the usual for the pathologist, but she understood the danger she was in, so took it all in stride, only wondering when the crisis would finally, inevitably, occur.

After their talk about Irene Adler that night on the couch, Molly and Sherlock had become closer. The danger she posed to Molly's life was still something of a presence, hovering in the air, seeming to bide its time. For Molly, who had never actually met her, the insecurities remained vague and dormant, but overshadowed with the certainty of Sherlock's feelings towards her. Sherlock was aware of this, and tried to reassure her of his sincerity as often as possible.

* * *

"Good morning!" John, who had been sipping on a cup of tea in the kitchen, called out when he saw Molly emerge from the bedroom she now shared with Sherlock. He pushed a tray of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up in her direction, and pointed to the kettle. "Want a cuppa?"

"Good morning." Molly smiled at him sleepily, walked over to take a biscuit and gratefully took the cup of tea John handed her. "Thank you." She sat on the kitchen stool and sipped, "I hear you've got big plans today?" She and Mary were friends, and now that she was around John so much, they had gotten a lot closer too. Sherlock had informed her last night that he had deduced John's intent to ask Mary to be his wife, something that she knew, from experience, the detective was probably right about.

John blushed and rubbed his nape with his free hand. "I should've known Sherlock would find out, and that he'd tell you."

Molly nodded, grinning. "Don't worry, I made our resident five-year-old" she flicked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom "promise not to say anything. And I won't even hint at it if she texts."

The doctor nodded gratefully, his face still flushed.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen then, wrapped in his dressing gown. "I am not a five-year-old. Obviously." He proceeded to steal Molly's tea, ignoring her protests. "You both have today off." He continued, gripping Molly's hand and lifted it to take a bite out of the biscuit she was holding. "Get out and get started on your proposal plans, I know there are a lot. The receipts for the flowers and candles are all over my desk. I expect you'll need plenty of time to panic and fuss over the arrangements for your proposal venue. A car on the London Eye, wasn't it?"

John sighed and nodded. _He might have changed a lot, but he also somehow managed to remain the same. Only Sherlock._ He thought, and realized he was grateful. "Actually, everything's just going to be waiting for our date tonight. Mycroft very generously helped out. Said it was his way of thanking me for…well, everything. It's not just a car. He went a bit overboard and had the whole thing reserved for us."

Molly squealed. "Oh my! Really? How nice! Mary's going to be so thrilled!" Her excitement was evident in her bright smile. "You're going to sweep her off her feet!"

The doctor self-consciously ran a hand through his hair and grinned back. "I hope so. And, Moll," he cleared his throat, "I know this isn't exactly perfect timing, with the threats against you and all - - "

"Don't be silly, John. My issues shouldn't factor in to your relationship at all. And frankly, I like good news for a change." She reassured him, then turned to frown up at Sherlock, who was munching on the biscuit she still held in the hand he was clutching."Let go, stop stealing my food." She pouted, trying to pull her hand free.

He ignored her, still firmly gripping her hand with the biscuit in it, while the other brought up his stolen cup of tea to his lips. She waited until he put the cup back down on the kitchen table; then swiftly grabbed his hand which was still holding hers with her free one, clutching it tight. Her hand dropped the biscuit and straightened so that her palm was facing the side, and she then pulled free. She stepped back with an amused grin and was about to turn away to walk towards the kettle when Sherlock, quick as ever, managed to snake an arm around her waist and pulled her close so that she was pressed tightly against his chest.

"And that's my cue to leave." John quickly stepped out of the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement. He grabbed his coat and proceeded down the stairs, shouting a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on his way out to the street below.

Sherlock smirked. "Good morning." He placed a kiss on her forehead, relaxing his hold on her.

"You git." She replied, placing both hands on his nape to pull him down for a proper kiss. _You're my git._ She thought, and she could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking, since his smirk widened into a grin, before meeting her lips. It was sweet and chaste, gentle pecks for a time; until each kiss lingered just a bit longer than the one before it. Molly suddenly found herself seated on the kitchen table, Sherlock's hands kneading her hips, her own busily caressing his scalp and his nape, making him whimper.

Although it was true that they have been sleeping in the same bed for almost a week now, they had not had the chance to make love. Molly was often worn out from work, and Sherlock was usually busy trying to track down where Irene Adler had disappeared to, having refused to take another case until this one had been solved. The consulting detective had made it clear that nothing would distract him from his work, and it was only on Molly's insistence that he ate or took time to nap at all. For this reason, the pathologist was surprised that Sherlock was initiating intimacy this morning.

"Sherl-Sherlock?" Molly managed to get out when they broke apart for some air.

"Hmmm?" he asked, capturing her mouth once again, a hand trailing upwards to her shoulder blades, pulling her impossibly closer. "Can't- - " he gulped some air, his breathing ragged, and Molly thrilled at the sight. "I can't hold back, this case is taking too long. I won't wait any more." He abruptly lifted her off the kitchen table, causing her to squeak. She tightened her grip on him as he carried her across the kitchen and in the direction of the bedroom, all the while kissing her deeply and a bit desperately.

She laughed when he nearly lost his balance, in avertedly ramming her back on the bedroom door. "I'm fine." She whispered when he pulled back in worry, thinking she'd been hurt. And she was. She was entirely too enamoured with what they had been doing to even notice. Molly felt beside her, trying to locate the doorknob while resuming their passionate kissing. When she succeeded, she turned it and pushed the door open. Sherlock groaned in approval and stepped forward, heading towards the bed. When Molly sensed the bed behind her, she lowered her legs from around his hip and stood on the mattress, so that she was now taller than the detective.

He tried to make her lie down, but Molly insisted on standing. She pulled back from him and grinned when he pouted in disapproval. He tried to pull her back down to him but she had other plans. Molly took hold of his dressing gown, untying the knot that held it closed, and quickly pulling it off his shoulders. Sherlock smirked at that and proceeded to lift the oversized t-shirt she was wearing up and over her head, leaving her in her knickers and the pyjama bottom she'd pulled on before she had made her way to the kitchen earlier. He buried his face in her neck, teasing her with tiny nibbles and gently puffs of breath on her skin, his hands slowly rubbing up and down sides, from her waist to the back of her thighs.

Molly retaliated by taking off his shirt in turn, and then running her hand across his clavicle and down the expanse of his chest. She let her hand travel around his torso and leaned forward to reach his lower back and trace circles there, lingering just above the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock groaned, impatient, and once again embraced and then guided her so that her upper body was lying on the mattress while her legs dangled over the edge as he leaned over her. He smiled down at her, and she smiled right back, lifting both hands to his face, one hand cupping his cheek, the other brushing the curl that obscured her view of his eyes.

"Sherlock? Molly?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the sitting room, "You have visitors!" her steps were heard approaching the door neither remembered closing, and knocked, calling out. "Wake up! Hoo-hooo!"

Sherlock's smile disappeared and Molly could not help but laugh when he flopped down on the bed in frustration, partially trapping her underneath him. She shoved him off her and grabbed her shirt, pulling it on.

"And people berate me for poor timing!" he growled, scowling up at Molly as she stood up, straightening her clothes. "Ignore her." He added, reaching out a hand to try and pull her back down.

She nimbly stepped out of his reach and called out "We'll be right out Mrs. H, sorry! Sherlock's still asleep!"

"I am not." Sherlock grumbled, still refusing to move from his spot on the bed while Molly hurriedly changed from her pyjamas into a pair of jeans and a cleaner shirt. She put her messy hair into a loose bun and pulled and prodded Sherlock so that he was finally standing up. She saw his pout and giggled once more, giving him a peck on the cheek and backing up so that he didn't get a chance to pull her into an embrace again.

"Hurry up and change, it could be important."

"But!"

"Come on, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can…you know!" She whispered, blushing furiously.

He gave her a wicked grin and walked towards the closet, pulling out one of his button-down shirts and a pair of trousers.

Still chuckling, Molly opened the bedroom door and got out. She turned around to carefully close the door. "Sorry about that Mrs. Hudson," she began, "He was being stubborn." She gave the landlady a hug and caught sight of Mycroft just inside the door to the sitting room. "Oh, good morning, Mycro-"

She had walked over to give him a hug of his own when a smaller figure emerged from behind Mycroft. Her smile froze and somehow, she recognized this to be the Woman.

Molly didn't notice Sherlock coming out of the bedroom shortly after, his greeting heavy with sarcasm. "To what do I owe this pleasure, brother?" if he was taken aback by the scene that met him he didn't show it. He stood so that Molly was half hidden behind him, glaring at both Mycroft and Irene.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Here you go! I'm still whittling away at chapter 8, BUT I am hoping to be able to publish that and the ninth either by tomorrow or on Monday to try and make up for the month-long delay.

Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome!

Ta!

~Liberi Ad Somnia


	8. News

Doctor John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was busy contemplating whether he needed to get a haircut for his big date later on in the evening, when he received a text from his best mate, whom he had just left behind in the flat they shared not an hour ago.

**Change of plans.  
****Your dreams of wedded bliss  
****will have to wait.  
****Your presence is required  
****at Baker St.****  
**

**-SH**

Before he could so much as open his messenger app to send the consulting detective a scathing reply, he received another one.

**Oh, and we're out of milk.**

**-SH**

Seething, John did a perfectly executed about-face and started walking back up the street while dialling his best friend's girlfriend's mobile number.

"Hello? Hello? Molly?" he exclaimed when the number picked up.

"You are so predictable John. Really." A deep and - - to the good doctor's mind - - highly irritating voice answered.

Coming to a halt in front of a newsstand, John put up a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Sherlock! Give the phone to Molly." He spoke, teeth on edge.

"It's really useless if you're going to be speaking to her about me anyway." Came the reply.

John took a deep breath and answered in a voice that provoked no further discussion. "Give. The phone. To Molly!"

"But- - -!"

"Hello? John? I'm sorry, I hadn't realized he'd taken my phone. Stop it, Sherlock!" The pathologist's gentle voice breathed through John's mobile, serving to calm the doctor down just a bit. "Sorry, he was trying to take the phone back." she added apologetically.

He let out a deep sigh. "Molly, please tell me Sherlock's joking. Please. I'm going to propose to Mary tonight, please tell me that's going to happen as scheduled?"

"Er- - remember what I told you this morning? About how my issues shouldn't affect your life and Mary's?" John could almost see Molly biting her nails in despair. "Well, you see, it already has."

John started at that. "You don't mean? Mary?"

"NO! No! God, no. She's safe, no threats against her at all, and Mycroft, well you know him, apparently he's had his people looking out for her as well. It's just, a new body's been found, uhm, it was at the base of the- the "

"The London Eye." John spoke along with her. "So it's been closed. Oh…" He began walking again, "I'll have to call her."

"Er, there's no need for that. Myc says he's got people over at her school now, they're going to take her to Baker Street to meet you, and then the two of you can discuss how best to proceed from there." She replied.

"Right." John thought it was overkill. After all, Mary didn't fit the victim profile; she was blonde, for starters.

_Still, prevention is better than cure I suppose._ John thought, _or in this case: prevention is better than revenge._ "Thanks Moll, I'm heading back. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

He heard Molly breath out a sigh of relief. "Okay, John. Later."

Before he could hang up, he heard a baritone shout. "Don't forget the milk!"

* * *

"I might be mistaken, brother, but shouldn't Lestrade be the messenger? It's his case, after all."

Sherlock was seated at the sofa, facing his brother, who had chosen to remain standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his customary umbrella, while Irene sat in John's seat near the fireplace. Mrs. Hudson had gone back downstairs, to resume her baking. Molly, who had moved out to the landing while she was on the phone with John, hesitated in the door to the sitting room, trying to decide whether to sit down or get the kettle going in the kitchen.

The consulting detective, unsurprisingly, noticed her predicament and motioned for her to sit beside him on the couch, and she did, uncomfortable under Irene's close scrutiny. Once she'd seated herself, Sherlock lifted an arm and casually placed it around her shoulders, both to reassure his pathologist, and to show the Woman how exactly things stood.

"And the company you keep, Mycroft." Sherlock continued, "Surely you're aware of this woman's nature." He gestured towards Irene with just a tilt of his chin.

"Lestrade knows of course, and is busy with his troops at the crime scene. He has been kept abreast of this knowledge, and was informed that I am now personally involved."

Sherlock snorted. "When are you not?"

Molly nudged his side with her shoulder. "Oh, c'mon, Sherlock. He's just trying to help. Thank you, Myc. Really." She smiled up at the British Government.

Mycroft gave her one of his rare genuine ones in return. It made Sherlock shiver. "Thank you, Molly. It's the least I can do." His smile disappeared as he turned back to the younger Holmes. "As for the company, you would want to pay attention, brother dear." He walked up to the window and looked out to the street below, much like his sibling's habit.

John came into the room then, a large plastic bag in hand. He nodded to his best friend and Molly, and muttered a hurried hello to Mycroft, apparently not noticing Irene in his customary seat. "Let me just get this into the kitchen."

"Oh, I'll help." Molly stood and walked over to accompany him, making Sherlock pout. "I'll get the tea started." She continued, making sure to avoid Irene's eyes as the latter continued to stare at her from beneath perfectly curled eyelashes.

Mycroft watched in amusement at Irene's visibly agitated demeanour as she took in the obvious. "Go on then, Miss Adler. Tell your tale."

The refrigerator door slammed in the kitchen, and a flustered John walked back into the sitting room, a picture of surprise and confusion. "Miss Adler? Wha- -?" He finally caught sight of the Woman and he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Great. Good job Mycroft, bringing bad news AND the one person who your brother's girlfriend should never be in the same room with! Why don't you ever just come round for tea and it not involve murder?"

"I did not murder anyone." Irene remarked, finally. "When Mr. Holmes' men found me, I was out in Paris with MY girlfriend." She turned to Sherlock, meeting his eyes with her own. "Go on, deduce me. I have not been in contact since last year when you consulted me about Moriarty."

"I already have, Miss Adler. Did you really think I require permission?" Sherlock had looked her over closely the moment he realized she was in the flat. She still looked much the same, her hair piled on top of her head in tasteful mimicry of the classic pin-up girls' of a few decades back, her bespoke clothes fitted to show off her figure, her feet in black stilettos, and face perfectly made-up, which included her signature red lipstick.

"I regret to say," he continued, "that you've managed to hold back information from me before; quite surprised you're clothed, actually." He smirked as John cleared his throat uncomfortably, obviously recalling that moment.

Irene smiled slyly. "Really, Mr. Holmes. What would the missus say?" she turned her gaze back to Molly, who had just come back in after setting up the kettle for tea, and was on her way to sit beside Sherlock as the detective had been speaking.

Sherlock smirked. "What? My Molly?" He paused for emphasis, beckoning for Molly to resume her seat beside him with a gentle curve of his lips.

Reassured, Molly sat back down, letting Sherlock once again pull her closer, and turned to speak to Irene for the first time. "I-I know about you already. Sherlock's told me all about how you met." She felt his hand on hers, and continued, feeling even braver. "And just because you were in Paris when Myc's - - I mean, Mycroft's men found you, doesn't make it an alibi. It's been weeks since the killings started; either you or an associate, on your instructions, could have done it. And there haven't been any more these days, not since you've sent that-that text." She felt Sherlock's hand squeeze hers at that, and heard him chuckle.

"My, my, Mr. Holmes. She's feisty, this one, and not a bad mind either." Irene lifted an eyebrow and crossed her legs, leaning back in the chair. "Quite right…Molly, is it?"

"That's Doctor Hooper to you." Sherlock cut in, daggers in his eyes.

Irene lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Fine. You have a point there, _Doctor Hooper_" she made sure to emphasize the last two words as she rolled her eyes. "However, I can prove that I was nowhere near London in the past several months. When Sherlock here helped me out of a bind I was in-in Karachi, I made a promise never to go back here, and I've kept that promise. I've found a way to make my living in Europe, mainly France, in the last year and a half, plying my trade. I'd go into details, Doctor, but I'm afraid it might scandalize your poor little heart." She noted how all three men in the room glared at her, and pretended not to notice. She turned to face the consulting detective once more. "Your brother can vouch for me."

Mycroft stirred from his place by the window. "I'm afraid so, little brother. When you informed me that you could not locate her through your little network, I decided to try looking for her outside of London. Someone else has been killing off all those women. I've been reliably informed that Miss Adler's been in either France or Germany during that time."

John huffed in disbelief. "And how sure are you of this? Whoever gave you this information, what if she just- to use her words - knows what they like?"

Sherlock chuckled. "John has a point. However, I've been considering the possibility that someone else is responsible for all this, and only wishes to put the blame on Miss Adler. The "Irene Adler" I caught a glimpse of that day was too far away for me to be able to be certain it's her. And if she were anywhere in the city between then and now, I'd have found her sooner. Concerning the text: anyone remotely familiar with her ways can pretend to be her, which also posits that whoever is doing this has interacted with Miss Adler on a personal level."

"Do we really have to be so formal?" Irene leaned forward as she spoke, aiming a seductive half-smile at the consulting detective, disregarding John's disapproving frown, Mycroft's raised eyebrow and Molly's stunned expression.

Sherlock pretended not to notice, pulling on Molly's hand gently, taking her attention away from the Woman and onto himself. When their eyes met, he brought their joined hands on his lips, gave hers a kiss, and asked, "Chinese for lunch? I thought we'd order takeaway and then head out to Angelo's for dinner later. He's been asking when I'd bring you round again; you've managed to charm the poor man."

When Molly nodded in confusion at the sudden change of topic, he smiled then turned to his best friend, "You can join us if you like. And when Mary gets here you can bring her with you, she was expecting a date after all. We can make it a double. Unless my brother insists on joining us and bringing a date of his own. That last one is NOT a suggestion, by the way. I'd rather not suffer indigestion."

John chuckled in approval of his flatmate's behaviour, noticing Irene bristle at his friend's display of affection towards Molly.

"Don't worry, brother. I am far too busy to spend the evening in idle chatter. I will be taking Miss Adler with me, Lestrade and his superiors have been informed that the primary suspect will be under my department's direct supervision from here on out."

Mycroft walked towards Molly then, taking her hand and kissing it goodbye. "A pleasure as always, Molly, we'll have tea again soon, and under better circumstances, I hope."

Molly smiled up at him as Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just say it: you want her to bake one of her fairy cakes again for you."

John chuckled, realizing that Mycroft's kind gestures toward the pathologist are sincere, though he also understood that the older Holmes was doing it front of the Woman to make a point: Doctor Molly Hooper was under his personal protection. Mess with his brother's pathologist, mess with the British Government.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As promised, here's chapter eight! I'm hard at work on chapter 9, and am aiming on updating again later in the week.

Thanks for reading, and, as usual, if you have the time, please let me know what you think!

Ta,

Liberi Ad Somnia


	9. Unraveling

A confused Mary Morstan stood just inside the door to the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. She had been in the middle of giving a lecture on Mozart when a co-faculty member knocked on the classroom door and informed her she was needed at the headmaster's office. She looked around and noted Sherlock reading a medical textbook while cradling a napping Molly's head on his lap on the couch, cups of tea they'd apparently been drinking out of sitting forgotten on the coffee table. Across from them, and facing away from her, sat her boyfriend, tapping away on his laptop, apparently looking up restaurants along the Thames.

"Hello sweetie. Would you mind explaining what I'm doing here?"

John looked up and hurried over to her, relief in his features. "Mary…oh, hello. Er, here, sit." He ushered her towards the seat he'd just vacated, and stood near, rubbing the back of his neck. "I assume a bunch of men in suits insisted you come with them and brought you here in a black car, all the while ignoring any questions you posed to them?"

Sherlock snorted derisively from his place in the couch, never taking his eyes off his girlfriend.

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Just a girl, a woman, her nose buried in her Blackberry, hardly paid me any attention. The rest of it's spot on though. How did you know that? Explain? Please?"

"Anthea." John whispered under his breath. He sighed, gestured for her to give him a moment, and walked off towards the kitchen. He came back with a stool which he placed near and sat on. "You remember that brother Sherlock hates? The one I told you kidnapped me the day he and I met?" She nodded. "Well, you met his…secretary."

"More like 'minion'." Sherlock chimed in, looking disgusted.

"Will you be quiet, while I explain things to my fian-girlfriend!" A flustered former army doctor looked at Mary with wide, anxious eyes. "My girlfriend! Right. She's Mycroft's girlfriend…I mean secretary, and…" John ploughed on, trying to ignore Mary's confused-and curious- expression.

* * *

Molly woke up from her nap to find Sherlock looking down towards her, pouting. "What?" she asked, torn between irritation and amusement.

"You need to get up now. You've been asleep for 32 minutes and I need to send a text."

She sat up and noted Mary and John in the kitchen, chatting away. She turned back towards Sherlock, who had not moved. "I thought you said you need text someone?"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes at her.

"Then why not do it?"

His pout grew into a scowl and he crossed his arms as it did. "My phone's on the mantelpiece next to the skull."

It was Molly's turn to scowl. "You woke me up to get it?"

"No." Sherlock eyed her defiantly.

"I'm not going to get it."

"I know."

"Then why don't you get it?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair in irritation. "My lower extremities are currently experiencing mild paresthesia due to inactivity during the 32 minutes you've been sleeping."

Molly smiled in amusement. "Pins and needles? You could've moved me Sherlock." She stood up and walked to grab Sherlock's mobile from the mantelpiece. "You didn't have to stay absolutely still for half an hour."

"I didn't want to wake you." Sherlock whispered, but Molly caught it nonetheless and she giggled. She walked back towards her detective and handed him his phone, carefully avoiding his legs.

She reached out and put her hand in his curls, "Thank you." She whispered back, gently massaging his scalp, and gave him a peck on the forehead before straightening up. She noted, before she turned away, that Sherlock's scowl had given way to a smirk. To make sure he hadn't just succeeded in manipulating her into bringing him his mobile, she quickly nudged his foot with her own.

Sherlock jerked his foot away with a huff and looked up at her in alarm.

Molly smirked and started to walk towards the kitchen. "Just checking!"

* * *

The afternoon had been spent with John and Molly catching her up on the case, while Sherlock sent out numerous texts, scraped away on his violin, and then sat lost in his Mind Palace. When evening came, Mrs Hudson called from downstairs and insisted they all go down and have dinner with her.

They managed to drag Sherlock along, even though he insisted that eating would only slow him down. His protests were no match for his best friend, his girlfriend and landlady ("Not the housekeeper!") cum mother figure however, and they found themselves in the kindly lady's sitting room, nearly overflowing plates in each of their hands.

"Well, don't just scowl at it dear. Eat! I made it just the way I know you like it." Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock's shoulder a gentle nudge. "Go on!"

"Thanks again Mrs H." John smiled gratefully at her.

Mrs Hudson waved it away. "So, if The Woman isn't the one who's been threatening our dear Molly and killing off all those others, then who is it?"

Sherlock answered, ignoring the looks of incredulity from the others. "I have my suspicions. I've informed some people from the Homeless Network. We should be receiving more news soon."

"How could you have informed them? You didn't get out of the flat all day. None of us did. And, hold on, Mrs H, how come you know about Irene Adler?" A confused John looked from one to the other, while Molly and Mary simply stared at the rest, eating their food in attentive silence.

Mrs Hudson patted John's arm reassuringly. "Just because I don't mention anything doesn't mean I don't know what's happening to my boys." She tapped the side of her nose. "I gave that boy across the street a fiver earlier, with a note, just like Sherlock said in his text."

Intrigued, Mary piped up. "What note? What does it say?"

Before Sherlock could give a smug reply, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson hurried to answer it, insisting they continue to eat their fill.

John chuckled. "I swear one of these days we'll find out Mrs Hudson was a former MI5 agent or something.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock turned to Molly with a sly grin. "If anything, she might still be an agent. If I were her boss I wouldn't let her retire. She's too good."

Molly giggled, and all three were unsure whether Sherlock had been joking or not.

"It was that boy. He gave me this." Mrs Hudson handed the piece of paper to Sherlock and settled back down in her seat. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, when she noticed John, Mary and Molly all staring at her with wide eyes.

"I knew it!" Sherlock jumped up from his place beside Molly on Mrs Hudson's couch and proceeded to pace across the cramped sitting room. "John, we now know who our adversary truly is. It is now only a matter of catching our killer. We'll need Scotland Yard for that. What the police lack in terms of intellectual prowess they make up for with enthusiasm."

John rolled his eyes at his friend while Molly asked, "Who is it then?" Both Mrs Hudson and Mary awaited his answer with bated breath.

"John and I once met with this person, though I doubt he'll remember, so many things happened that day. It's- - -" Sherlock's phone rang, cutting him off.

John shook his head. "If I didn't know better I'd say he plans it so that he reveals vital information in the most dramatic way possible." He spoke to the others under his breath, earning a grin from each of the women.

"Brother. Why are you calling? Let me guess, you found out Mrs Hudson baked a cake for us and you're hoping we'd invite you over for you to have some?"

Mrs Hudson started, "That was supposed to be a surprise! For when you've all finished dinner!"

"Flour and vanilla." John and Molly explained at the same time.

Amused, Mary raised an eyebrow and asked, "What?"

John chuckled, and gestured for Molly to continue, which she obliged with a grin. "We could smell a faint hint of vanilla on you. I noticed it when we entered the sitting room earlier. That and the traces of flour on your sleeves gave it away."

Mrs Hudson smiled, a hand on her chest. "Goodness," She looked over at the consulting detective who was still bickering with his brother over the phone. "Sherlock's rubbing off on you two. I don't know whether to be pleased or horrified."

Mary and Molly laughed while John grinned, shaking his head. "I'm nowhere near Sherlock's level, but I tend to pay more attention to things nowadays, ever since we started sharing the flat."

"Good for you." Sherlock had ended the call and walked towards Molly, pulling her up and leading her to the door. "There may be hope for you yet."

"Wait, I haven't had cake yet!" Molly protested feebly as Sherlock pulled her outside the landlady's flat and into the hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put up both hands to cup her face between them. "You can still have cake, I just need to do something before I leave," He explained softly. "and I don't care for an audience." At that, he swooped down and met her lips in a forceful kiss.

It took a stunned Molly a moment to respond. When she did, she lifted a hand each to his nape and his cheek, savouring the sensations. Sherlock's enthusiasm meant they ran out of breath quickly, and when their lips parted, the pathologist leaned her forehead on his, and concern furrowed her brows. "What…was that…for?" she asked in between gasps.

Sherlock gave her arm a squeeze before straightening. "I have to run. We know who we're dealing with now and if I don't hurry Mycroft will get there before me, might not get answers."

"Promise to be careful." Molly understood that no further explanation would be forthcoming, and settled for getting reassurance instead. "If something happens and you can't make it back tonight send me a text so I at least know you're alive. I promise _I_ won't be texting you, but…you know."

"I promise." The consulting detective nodded, already halfway up the stairs to grab his coat and scarf from 221B. "Come on, John! You'll have to settle for getting a slice of cake later!" he shouted, "And bring your gun!"

* * *

"Where are we Sherlock? Why are we here?" John muttered as he ran huffing after his friend. They had gotten a cab from Baker Street and the consulting detective had said nothing on the way over, except to give the cabbie directions, tapping on his mobile the whole time.

Sherlock turned up an eyebrow at him. "Don't you recognize this place, John? I'd have thought that since this is where you saw a naked woman, got your life threatened with a gun and dodged bullets issuing from a vault it would've been burned into your memory."

"You mean- - -?" John looked around at the buildings closely, finally making out the features of the white infrastructures they'd stopped in front of. "But I thought the killer isn't Irene!"

He called out as he followed Sherlock to the door.

"She isn't." Sherlock took hold of the doorknob and turned. The door opened with ease. "Now hurry up John. We don't want to keep our host waiting." With that he entered, his hands clasped behind his back.

"She? Who's 'she'?" John muttered, trying but failing to make sense of things. He received no answer, but followed closely as the consulting detective checked each room before heading up the stairs.

They found a room at the head of the landing with it's doors open, flickering lights streaming out. "Come in boys. Don't be shy." A woman's voice called from within the room. "I won't bite."

At Sherlock's nod, he and John walked in to find a woman standing next to a bed, on which lay a figure, another woman in her underwear, bound and gagged.

"Good evening, boys." The woman trained a gun at the bed's occupant, as Sherlock answered in low acknowledgement.

"Kate."

* * *

**Author's Note****:** Hello! I'll probably be uploading two chapters tonight. (I've got my fingers crossed I can manage the second one or tomorrow morning.) I _think_ I might end this little tale soon, BUT I've several ideas for a new one (Sherlolly of course!) which I might upload during this coming weekend. In the meantime, let me know what you think? ^_^

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia


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